


A Kind of Red Herring

by Katzedecimal



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor... What, son? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, that plant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an incident lands Sherlock in hospital, Philip spots an opportunity and gets to work.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Set during <i>His Last Vow.</i>  Spoilers galore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kind of Red Herring

It was a long and boring night. Seriously, was there anything more boring than being a security supervisor? Yes, being a security guard. Philip swigged his coffee, disgruntled. Waiting in traffic was almost as boring as waiting at a desk. Ugh. How he missed forensics...

His radio crackled. "Anderson, what's your status, over?"

"En route to Hatton Garden timecheck, over."

"Copy that."

He sighed. At least he _was_ supervisory. His rounds moved him from place to place as he checked that his guards were actually, y'know, _guarding_ and not sleeping or sneaking off for a nip or that one memorable incident when he found the bloke in the janitorial closet having a wank. He turned the corner and parked in the reserved parking space. 

He hated Hatton Garden. It was slick and shiny and brightly lit. It was **too** clean, is what it was. It wasn't the museum clean that certain housekeepers maintained. It was more like crime-scene clean, he decided. It was clean like it had something to hide. He half expected the walls to start oozing slime at any moment. 

He checked in and started his rounds, beginning with the time stamps. He was talking with the duty guard when two more ran up. "Mr. Anderson? Sir, there's been an incident, sir!"

"What kind of incident?"

"They're saying there's been a shooting, sir! Top floor, sir!"

"What?!" Top floor was ~~the sleazeball's~~ Magnusson's office, wasn't it? Yes, alright, he'd learned his lesson about thinking of Sherlock as 'the freak' but there was something really, **really** off about Magnussen, the few times Philip had seen him. And Sherlock had said that he was on a case involving Magnussen, whereupon his terrifyingly Orwellian brother had turned around and threatened him and Benji if they ever mentioned it. So he hadn't mentioned it, but he had done some third-party Googling and turned up the smear magazines and tabloid papers and the very worst kind of paparazzi. 

The sirens were drawing near while he ordered the lockdown procedures and incident protocols. He also palmed his own USB stick; if Sherlock was interested in this fellow, there could be something useful. He was crossing the foyer when the lift doors opened and he heard a familiar voice. _That sounds like Doctor Watson. What's he doing here? Oh no..._

He watched in growing dread, unheeded as the paramedics backed out of the lift, pulling the stretcher past him. Philip swallowed thickly as he glimpsed the pallid, bloodied form not of Magnussen, but of Sherlock Holmes. 

* * * *

The advantage to wearing a uniform was that during times of emergency, people tended not to notice **which** uniform you were wearing. Years of working for the Met had given Philip exactly the right carriage and of course, he wasn't _lying_ when he said "Forensics" as he brushed past, flipping his ID just enough to be noticed but not fully registered. He didn't see where Magnussen had buggered off to so he got to work quickly.

He'd already gotten to the security camera footage and copied it to his stick. Now he was photographing the evidence before the police (the _official_ police) got there. There wasn't a lot he could do with a camera phone but he did his best to capture as much as he could. He wished he had his kit but he didn't have time to go home and get it. _Note to self, figure out a way to carry your kit with you,_ he thought wryly, thinking of Doctor Watson's many pockets.

"Anderson, what's the status, Hatton Garden, over?"

He pressed the button on his radio, "Status locked down, incident in progress, police coming on scene, over."

"Copy that. Manager coming on scene in twenty, standard incident review procedure."

"Copy. Thanks, Murphy." He sighed heavily and put his phone away as he walked out. Incident review meant that anybody and everybody would be shaken up and dressed down while management searched for ~~someone to blame~~ explanations why a shooter AND a couple of witnesses were able to access the supposedly inaccessible penthouse office. At least he was _moderately_ protected by the fact that he'd just arrived on site, himself.

The lift doors opened and he looked up to see one of the Met's incident teams. "Floor's clear. All yours," he told them brusquely as he marched out. 

* * * *

"How is he?"

Doctor Watson's head snapped up at the soft whisper. He squinted for a moment, "...Anderson? What're you doing here?"

"Bringing you some tea," Philip said, handing him a cup. 

"Thanks." John sipped then looked up, "He's stable. They say he's out of the woods but he has a long road of recovery ahead of him."

"Thank heavens," Philip sighed, "It'd be terrible for him to have suffered everything he went through, just to get felled by a _gun._ " He spat the last word disdainfully.

John snorted, "Hmph - yeah, he suffered." He saw Philip staring at him, "What?"

"You haven't seen his back?"

"What?" John looked at the unmoving man on the bed, "What about his back?"

"When you get a chance, sneak a look at his back. Yes, he suffered."

John glanced back at him, "He's talked to you, then?"

"Pht, very little. But he didn't do it for fun, Doctor Watson."

John sighed, "I guess you can call me John, since Sherlock seems to have forgiven you."

"No one's more surprised by that than me," Philip sighed, "You look done in, though. Do you want to pop off for a bit of kip? I'm off call, I can stay with him if you like."

John looked back at Sherlock, clearly dithering. "Yeah... Yeah I suppose I should. I got some kip while Mary was watching him but I should probably grab a bite. Alright. Thanks."

"No problem," Philip said. He settled into the chair after John vacated it. After the door had closed, he patted Sherlock's hand, trying not to wince at how cool and still it felt. "Just you and me, old chap," he said with false cheerfulness, "Don't worry, I don't plan on boring you by wasting oxygen. I've brought a book. Unless you'd like me to read it to you, which I highly doubt. It's fan fiction. _Sleepy Hollow_ , if you're interested. I prefer science fiction and fantasy, stuff where physics just doesn't exist and I don't get caught up in 'that's not how it works,' heh. Can't watch police procedurals for that reason. I bet you're the same, probably drive everybody crazy deducing that the cockroaches must have done it because the writers can never work out a plot." He noticed activity on the EEG monitors and sighed, "And here I said I wasn't going to waste oxygen. Sorry about that. I'll shut up and read now, you get on with mending."

He pulled out his phone and opened his e-reader. Several minutes later, an increase in beeping drew his attention and he looked up to see Sherlock stirring, eyelids fluttering. Before he could say anything, Sherlock's head rolled towards him and his eyes opened, pinning him with a direct stare. "Did that plant move?"

Philip blinked. "Plant?" He looked around but there weren't even any cut flowers. "There are no plants here, Sherlock."

He looked back but Sherlock had slipped away into sleep again. Philip patted his hand then went back to reading.

"I fell back. Right ag'n." He looked up to see Sherlock blinking at him again. "Getting t' b' a habit."

Philip smiled and reached to squeeze his hand. "Now who's wasting oxygen?" he said tenderly. Sherlock frowned, puzzled, at where Philip was rubbing his knuckles with his thumb, then stared up at him blearily. "You should conserve your strength," Philip continued, "You need your strength for mending. Don't worry, I'll take care of you while John's away."

Sherlock's hand shifted and caught Philip's in a sudden grip. " _John._ "

"I sent him off to get some grub," Philip replied reassuringly, "He needs to keep his strength up, too."

"John's 'n dang'r." 

There was no mistaking the urgency in Sherlock's slurred whisper. Philip searched his eyes, not so sure now that the other man was dreaming aloud. "From whoever shot you?"

Sherlock's brows knitted and he looked like he was trying to remember. Finally he sagged back into the pillow and nodded, his strength rapidly waning. "'nd it's wh'm'v'r," he mumbled. 

"You just never quit, do you," Philip chuckled. A grin flicked across Sherlock's face for a moment before turning into a grimace. Philip leaned down and whispered, "I've got access to the security footage. I'll do whatever I can to help."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. "Might p't th't stalking h'bit of y'rs t' good use."

"Ah.... er, sorry..."

Sherlock closed his eyes again and sank back into the pillow. "John can't know ab't th's."

"About the danger?" Sherlock nodded. "Alright."

"He can't know ab't me, e'th'r. You're the 'nly one who knows."

Philip frowned. There were at least two ways to interpret that, so he figured he would just say "Alright" to both of them. That seemed to satisfy Sherlock, who said nothing more and appeared to drift back into sleep. 

The door opened. "Ta much, Anderson," John said as he walked in, "I didn't realise how hungry I was." His eyes were drawn to where Philip still held Sherlock's hand. 

"It's no problem. Any time. My pleasure," Philip babbled, not quite certain why Watson was suddenly giving him the look of death.

"Right, well, I'll take over," John said brusquely, "I'm sure you have lots to do."

"R..right. Yes. He's been pretty quiet but he seems to be dreaming out loud a bit."

"Not unusual. Ta."

"Right, so I'll see you tomorrow then." Philip took his leave and mentally wiped his brow. _Now what set that off?_

* * * * 

The kettle boiled and Philip poured water over the teabag while his laptop booted up. While it steeped, he put the USB stick in and opened the files, then plugged his phone in and loaded the images from his camera. Then he brought his tea to his desk and sat down to start taking notes. 

He knew Sherlock to be six feet of height, which gave him a starting point. He started comparing the photographs and marking heights when something started nagging at the back of his head. He looked at an image from the security still camera then looked at some of the pictures he took on his phone. Then he ran the security video and stared. 

* * * * 

"John?"

"Hm? Oh. 'Morning, Phil. Is it that time already?"

"Yes, I just came off shift," Philip replied, "How is he?"

"About the same as the last few days," John sighed, "He sleeps, maybe mumbles a bit. He's not getting any worse though, thank heavens."

"One day at a time," Philip agreed.

John stood up, "Right, I'm off to the canteen then. Back in thirty."

Philip settled into the chair and checked the monitors before taking out his e-reader. 

"Sl'py H'llow ag'n?"

"Hm? No, this time it's _Pacific Rim,_ " Philip chuckled, reaching over to pat Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock gave it a funny look before turning his head to glare at Philip, "You told John t' look at my back?"

"He's got this idea into his head that those two years were some kind of lark for you," Philip replied indignantly, "Did he manage it?"

Sherlock rolled back and sighed, "He did. He d'sn't know what t' make 'f it."

"And he doesn't know that you're awake and lucid, either. Why are you hiding that?"

"John can't know ab't it yet. He can't know how much d'nger he's in. Not y't."

"From the shooter," Philip confirmed, "The shooter looks like an assassin. It looks like Magnussen was the target, probably a professional hit. The shooter is quite short, White, possibly a woman. It's a little hard to tell but some angles show the hips.."

Sherlock waved his free hand irritably, "I know all of that."

"You do?"

"I know who shot me."

"Well there's my hard work down the drain." Sherlock smiled at that. "So wait, if you know who shot you, then why... Oh. Because it's someone John knows, too?"

"Z'ctly," Sherlock said, shifting uncomfortably. Philip rubbed his knuckles comfortingly, which got another funny look. "H've t' make the shooter reveal th'mselves t' him in a way he can't r'ject. S'where you c'me in."

"Me?"

"S'ner or l'ter, someone'll ask ab't my boltholes. This's what you say..."

Philip listened carefully, committing the instructions to memory. "Got it," he said. 

"Don't scr'w th's up," Sherlock sighed, "John's l'fe d'pends on it." 

"And yours doesn't?"

Sherlock shrugged and closed his eyes, "Th'nks f'r s'ving it."

"....Sorry?"

"Wh'n y' told me t' fall on my back. Wh'n I w's shot." One eye cracked open as Sherlock continued to be met with puzzled silence, "In M'gn'ssen's off'ce."

"I... have no idea what you're talking about."

"You w're there! Y'said y'saw th' shooter."

"I was on site," Philip clarified, "Hatton Garden is part of my circuit. I was on site and when the incident occured, I immediately grabbed the footage from the security cameras."

"Maybe I h'lluc'nated you," Sherlock conceded. He frowned, trying to remember. "No... must've done. Molly wasn't there. Was she?"

"Molly Hooper? No, certainly she wasn't."

Sherlock blew out his lips in frustrated annoyance, "Then the plant must've been a hall'c'nation, too."

"The mysterious sliding plant?"

Sherlock looked at him, "What?"

"You meant the plant in Magnussen's office, right? Yeah, as you started to topple backwards, the plant slid about a foot to its right."

"The plant **did** move. Why w'ld th' plant move?"

"I have no idea, it's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. I'll show you the footage so you can see for yourself, if you like. Magnussen and the shooter are still, you start to fall and the plant goes zoop! about a foot. I have no explanation for it."

"Huh! There's a red h'rring."

"Isn't it, though. Something to chew on while you're convalescing," Philip smiled and patted Sherlock's hand again. 

Sherlock stared at it then at him, "Why d'you keep d'ing that?"

Philip felt himself grow pale. "Oh.. um.. It's.. meant to be, y'know, reassuring, comforting, that sort of thing. Sorry, I'll try to stop if it bothers you, I don't always realise I'm doing it..."

Sherlock stared at their hands again. "S'fine."

"Does it bother you?"

"No one d's that."

Philip looked puzzled, "Not even John?" 

Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes. "Not 'ntil you st'rted, 'nyways."


End file.
